


To Love is to Suffer

by Purplemerald



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Chronic Pain, Curses, Dark Magic, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, It hurts for him to praise the Wolf but does it anyway, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Killer Jaskier, M/M, No beta Die Renfri, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witch Curses, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplemerald/pseuds/Purplemerald
Summary: “To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer..."  -Drewno KamieńJaskier is a Witcher and contract killer. He accepts any requests and contracts from all beings; from human kings to monsters, from witches and mages alike.  No matter how cruel or sick or inhuman, he finishes the job with a respectful bow and a smile on his face. With a reward, not gold but a surprise. When he receives a crystal from a cursed Priestess, he finds his Witcher's Path twist into a knot of suffering love.Or, Jaskier gets cursed to suffer when he falls in love with another Witcher. With every endearment, with every song of praise, with every touch and kiss, the Witcher Jaskier suffers pain unimaginable. He still sticks to his grumpy Geralt, though. Even if there's a chance he'll die saying he loves him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	To Love is to Suffer

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: There are scenes and descriptions of death, blood, and killings. There are mass killings and descriptions of torture that might not be good for the faint of heart. Please do not read this work if you are sensitive to these matters. You have been warned.
> 
> This is a Geraskier fic but do not be surprised by the lack of Geralt for the first two chapters for he is not yet introduced in the story. I'm still setting up everything before they meet. Which is quite sooner than expected.
> 
> "To Love is to Suffer" is inspired by a quote by Woodly Allen. I have translated his name in Polish for dramatic effect. 
> 
> The Witcher series has an Elvish language but I don't know that so all Elvish spells and songs and conversations in the story have been translated as Polish. Its a beautiful language and I, unfortunately, have only one friend, Google Translate.

The old woman crushes the flowers over her lap, plucking petals and stems, on her soft chair. Her cloudy green eyes worn out from the flame on candelabra lighting up her home. Its old charred wooden floor, creaks, and snaps from every weight and from every step. She breathes and flicks her wrinkly hand, feeling the chaos running down her fingertips. She sings her old Elvish lullabies, time counting up and up the clock:

_Chciałbym marzyć_

_Marzenie pełne cukierków po ryzę_

_Niech ogień oszukuje moje oczy_

_Niech umiłowani śpiewają mi kołysanki_

She hums and whispers, this song of sweet candies, this song of soft clouds of dreams. The old pale wood turns into fresh, supple hazel. The broken window turns clear. The rotten apples turn ripe. Yet, the hundreds of flowers tied in every corner withers into dust.

The mage stands up; her curved back creaking and her thin bare feet dirty with ash. She pulls out her old broom and brush and sweeps. She sweeps it all, all flowers and all ash and all evidence of her caramel magic. Even if the orange sky circles into the black night. She sweeps and sweeps and sweeps, her palms turning white and it aches. It aches and aches and aches, while she waits for him to come home. She waits until she cries and cries, cleaning her ashen house, cloaking its charcoaled wood, its broken glass, its rotten apples. She waits and waits and sings about a slumber that makes the chaos in her soul glee.

But one night in her pleasant dream, there’s someone knocking on the door. She stares up from her ash and dust, clouded green eyes seeing a beautiful house waiting for her beautiful man. Its hazel floors newly polished, her oval windows crystal clear, her tall feathered flowers brightly bloomed, her apples freshly picked. The candles on her old silver candelabra flicker on her old green eyes. She waits and waits but another knock raps her door. She wanted to wait but the knock starts again, a knock gentle, nor angry nor frightful. She opens the door.

She sees a man clad in black; his small hands within thick leather gloves, his chest armored with dragon skin, his boots studded with silver. The mage discovers the lighted torch on the man’s hand, boiling in her skin. She screams, ready to run on her bed but he grabs her wrist, spilling tears in her green apple eyes.

“It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man whispers, her grip on her wrist, soft. “I’m not here to hurt you, madam.” He says again, his ocean blue eyes pleading. He throws his torch away, dying down.

The old mage wipes away her tears, a relieved smile on her wrinkled face. She can finally wait again for her beloved. She steps away from the man clad in black, sitting on her wooden chair near her bed, smelling her flowers on the small table next to it. She waits and waits, her old eyes following the young man.

The man sits down on the chair across her, waiting like her. Yet she knows that he doesn’t have the patience compared to the old mage. His body, sturdy yet dangly feels its needs to move. He sits with his legs crossed and back slumped, a strong pale hand on his chin, eyes staring at her. His brown ragged hair, resting on his unwrinkled face. He looks disappointed yet curious. He inspects her home, eyeing every speck of her house. There’s a gaze lock on her flowers.

“Those flowers…” He starts, his soft silky voice echoing in her beloved’s home. “Where did you get it?”

The old mage’s old cheeks turned pink and proud. “My beloved gave it to me. It’s quite beautiful, don’t you think?” She plucked one of the feathered flowers, blue like his eyes, and gave it to him with a shaky hand.

“Yes.” He agreed, giving a smile but his blue eyes flickering with sadness as he touches its feathered petals. “Astilbe,” he named, “…it means patience and devotion.”

The mage giggles. “Yes! My beloved went for a few deliveries in the city. He gave this to me to be a little patient.” She strokes a few petals, her old eyes dreamy. “He took one so he’ll know I’ll be waiting for him.”

The mad nods, the chair creaking as he puffs air to the blue flower. He frowns when nothing happens.

“And I’m waiting for him…” Her green eyes look down, holding her flowers on her lap. “…waiting for him to come back.”

The man reads her, tilting his head. “Do you know why I am here, old madam?”

She nods. “I know you are here to wake me up.”

“Then, please excuse my behavior.” He stands, leaving the blue Astible on her table. He steps near the mage’s candelabra resting on the shelf, her five candlesticks with their flickering flame. He blows out and the wood in the house creaks and cracks.

“Please no!” The mage shouted on her chair, gripping the flowers in her old palms. The petals dropping on her feet, turning into ash. “Not yet!”

“You have waited for a long time.” He insists.

“It’s not enough!”

“You don’t need to lie to yourself.” He sighs, holding the silver candelabra gently. The candles flickering and waving like her fear.

“No! I need to wait! Or he’ll come back to our house all alone!” The mage cried, the tears on her green eyes wetting the ash on her feet.

The man whispers, his voice sweet and calm. “You have to wake up, dear little mage.” He throws the candles, leaving only darkness and the breaking the mage’s sweet candied magic dream.

She screams. The house crumbling on top of them; the wood turning to flame, the flowers wilting into dust, the fruits turning into rot, the Astilbe smelling of ash and smoke. She screams and screams, her skin turning smooth, her hair shading into a young black, her green eyes turning clear. She cries and cries until she returns young and her house turns into a burnt down-home. She cries and cries until the dust and cobwebs turn alight. She cries holding the hand of her beloved, lying on the bed, the rotting burned flesh and bones left with the ash. The ashes she tried to clean, the ashes she tried to forget.

She, who cannot wait and cannot grow old, screamed and screamed until night turns to light. The man, the Witcher, waited and waited for the sweet little mage to wake up from her lovable dream.

_There was a young beautiful mage who lived in the outskirts of the city, who minds a quiet home and a quiet life. She leaves her home at dawn to pluck and pick flowers and leaves turning it into medicine until night. She was a healer for humans. They come and go in the forest, leaving her coppers and silvers as payment and when she allows, they can gift her flowers when they cannot pay. She gave her thanks by tying all the flowers she received into every corner of her house and leaves little candies on children’s pockets. She loved and was beloved by all. It was no question that when one day she helped a dying young boy, he gave her no coins but fruits and flowers every day. Later, he gave his heart to her._

_The young mage and the young boy loved was loved by each other. They have lived in the mage’s house with flowers newly plucked and fruits freshly picked. They loved and loved even when the young boy turns old and the beautiful young mage stayed the same._

_The young mayor of the city became bewitched of the mage’s immortality. He wanted her all to himself. He whispered to every ear, “The healer outside the city is a horrible witch, out to put poisons in every candy she’ll give.”_

_When the angry people came by the mage’s house, they only met the young man, cleaning the home with fresh Astible flowers and ripe fruits. They demanded the mage, the horrible witch they said, “Give us the horrible witch with poison in her lips!”_

_The old man said no, for there is no witch but her beloved living here._

_The mayor whispered again, “That is no young man but a monster who loves a witch. Kill the monster using your axe and torch. Bring me the cunning witch who have enslaved us all.”_

_The old man was killed all alone in the house without his beloved. The mage came back home that night, with her ashen wood, wilted flowers and the love of her life dead and burned._

“It’s a common story, really.” The Witcher says, indifferent. He stands in front of the crying mage, kneeling on ash and bones. “The young beautiful mage loved and loved but the rest of the world made her…” He sneers, twirling the blue Astilbe between his fingers. “…and people she cared about into monsters,” plucking its feathers one by one. “And in the end, _you_ let yourself become what they say you are.” The flower beautifully suffering. “ **A witch**.”

She laughs. They said her beloved was a monster as well when he only loved her. When he only gave her intoxicating and sweet fruits and flowers. When she only wanted to see his smile that tasted like apples in a summer breeze. When they only wanted to whisper their love to the world.

“I have just accepted the contract to kill the witch outside the city, paying me 100 gold coins as long as I give your corpse intact. Isn’t that funny?”

She was the monster. She alone. She hid and cried and the rest of the years sleeping in slumber. Her dreams of waiting for her beloved to return. She only wanted to love them. She only wanted to be loved.

The Witcher grimace, “For I see only an old woman waiting and waiting with her flowers in hand.”

She cries.

“They made you a monster, they called you a witch and all you wanted was to sleep with pretty dreams. Why not kill them? Why?”

She looks down on her beloved’s hand, tangling her smooth fingers between his, remembering his whispers of love. Why didn’t she push them away? The humans she thought loved her had killed her beloved. They called her a witch even though she used her magic for healing. All of it was for them. She loved them yet hated her so why didn’t she hate them too?

_Eve, my dearest. My sweet and darling Evangeline._

_My dear Adam._

“Because he loved them…” She confesses.

The Witcher pause, looking up to the sunrise, the warm light touching all the world. The colors of the world moving with the wind yet unable to calm his heart. Yes. All of this is happening because of that.

She sobs. “Because I wanted to love humans as Adam did.”

Yes. Love. The loneliness, the tears, the pain, and anger is because they loved the world and wished they can be loved as well.

“Even if they hate me. Even if they hurt me, even if I suffer. **I’ll still love them from the bottom of my heart.** ”

The Witcher smiles, “then that is your true self, no longer sleeping in the depth of your sweet slumber.” He kneels in front of her, “I have met my client.” Reaching behind his pocket, he pulls out a parchment, sealed with silver wax, the sign of a candelabra with five candles alight.

“I have received your request from the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.” The Witcher flips the letter open, scanning what is written. “Do I proceed, Madam Evangeline Rheinland of Beauclair?”

Evangeline nods, smiling gently holding Adam’s hand. “Then I will give your reward after granting my wish, Witcher.”

The Witcher bows deeply in front of ash before he leaves, his hands armored with steel and silver daggers, his blue eyes glowing gold, eyes of snakes. He leaves, nimble feet leaping to the forest, in the direction of the city.

The lonely Evangeline lies with her beloved, her soft bed and burned Adam. She hums lullabies as she waits, whispering her love to Adam, hearing the screams in the distance.

_Niech Beauclair tęskni za mną. Niech ta miłość wychodzi z ducha i wchodzi do nich._

She sings and sings her sweet lullabies, waiting and waiting for her love to come. She feels the day has come long yet the sun has just risen.

Someone knocks on her broken door. Evangeline leaps to the door, her smile delighted to see such a beautiful man.

“Madam Evangeline, I apologize for being late.” The Witcher grins, teeth white, but his body shining red with dark blood-soaked from head to toe. “I ran through some troubles but I have fulfilled your request.” His blue eyes glowing in pride to see his Master grinning at the sight.

“I have burned the City of Beauclair.” The Witcher announces, grabbing the parchment again, checking the details. “I have fulfilled to kill all the men of Beauclair by slicing every inch of their skin, draining half of their blood and burning them alive inside the cathedral. I have forced every woman to eat their poisoned fruits, dirtying their blood until they died. I have drowned all children in the river, the babes to fall beneath the chasms of the mountains. I have destroyed all buildings and homes.” He points to outside the forest, black smoke in the blue sky. “And I have brought the Mayor.”

He kicks in an older man, plump fat and foul. His limbs tied tight, turning to purple and black. He screams at the Witcher, tears bubbling up. “Stop, I beg of you! Please! Please don’t kill me!”

“Cease your tears, Mayor, for you have been blessed by Madam Evangeline, the Priestess of Coram Agh Tera.”

Evangeline skips around the house, cackling around her burned home like a true Witch. She brings out a parchment knife from her breasts, sharp in its blade. “I will love you like how Adam wanted me to love you.”

The mayor wails, “No! No please!”

Evangeline sings her Elvin spells, as the blood drenched from the Witcher pools to her hands.

_Pozwólcie mi pragnąć, jak nigdy wcześniej. Kocham ich, chcę ich, a oni muszą odczuwać to samo pragnienie. Duchu Corama, pozwól im płonąć ze mną ze względu na miłość._

“I will love you…” She holds her blade, laying her hand on the Mayor’s chest. “My beloved Beauclair.”

She sinks the knife, and stabs and stabs and stabs. The blessed man convulsing as she sinks it, again and again, whispering her sweet lullabies of adoration.

This is her love.

This is a **witch’s love**.

That is the curse that befell the City of Beauclair.

“Thank you, Witcher. Thank you so much.” Evangeline purrs, as she carved the Mayor’s chest with a symbol of a spider’s weave, the sign of _Coram Agh Ter_. “My wish has been completed.” She bathes from the blood. “Now I will be with _all_ my beloved forever.”

The Witcher bows again, showing his utmost respect. “You have cursed Beauclair and everyone in it to be with you forever.” He unsheathes his silver blade, awe in his cornflower-blue eyes. “ **For that is love**.” With swift feet, he runs forward to the Witch, impaling her straight to her heart.

“That is love,” Evangeline repeats, black blood dripping from her heart. “That is love, Witcher.”

He twists the knife, his awe in his eyes never breaking. “Please do remember me…”

Evangeline reaches for his silver medallion, molded with a Viper. “A flower of the sun…” She names him, “…poison hidden in fangs.”

The Witcher from the School of Viper pulls his blade, “For I will join you in Coram soon, I will not let you wait any longer.”

Evangeline sleeps once again. For she dreams another dream of sweet apples and pretty flowers. To be with all the people she loved, that is her request.

The Witcher stares at the lifeless body of Evangeline. He kneels, slicing down till her abdomen. He reaches in, sliding over guts and jet black blood, reaching down to her heart and he pulls. He pulls up a crystal as large as his palm, twinkling turquoise blue between black blood.

 _“Then I will give your reward after granting my wish.”_ The Witcher remembers. He snorts, seeing his name in his reward. Within the turquoise crystal, embeds a single blooming Dandelion.

She calls within the wind. _I will be waiting for you, Jaskier._

Behind black smoke and the stench of red-black blood, behind joyful killings and death, he kisses his crystal feeling every color of the world. He croons, singing his joy with glee in his beautiful cornflower blue eyes. Blessings and Curses. Death and Destiny. Heroics and Heartbreak.

He wonders what his life will offer to him next.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the first chapter. I hope you like it!
> 
> I always continue my stories but sometimes I lose my love for it. Please comment and share your opinions! This is my first time writing fanfics for the series, The Witcher, and it has been a long time I've written and posted stories.
> 
> I've been researching lullabies and spells for witches. It was exciting doing some spells with candles. 
> 
> ***Beauclair is a city in the South of the world of The Witcher. Its total opposite is Kaer Morhen, the Keep in the North where Geralt trained when he was young.  
> **Used the Word Evangeline because it was a pretty name then realized its shorter name, Eve. And her lover, Adam. We have Adam and Eve! (did not connect this sooner) And Adam has his apples. So we all know the ending is not quite good but acceptable. (both this story and in the Bible hahaha)  
> * And Jaskier who is a Viper Witcher. A snake giving Eve knowledge (or more or less waking her up) --> this part I did not plan or connect until I was typing these notes. wtf
> 
> did I unconsciously write the Genesis? what the hell


End file.
